


Ouch

by LeFay



Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 05:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20353441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeFay/pseuds/LeFay
Summary: Nonsense Four-gets-hurt drabble.





	Ouch

**Author's Note:**

> No idea where this came from. Or why.

"Tris!" I can hear Lauren banging on the other side of my door. Well, Tobias's door; I live here now. "Open up!"

I put down the knife that I was using to chop vegetables. Somehow I got back earlier than Tobias today. He must be working the new initiates extra hard in the pit. My plan had been to surprise him with something close to a home cooked meal. But when I open the door and find a panting, clearly troubled Lauren, I can tell my plans will be changing. 

She leans a hand against the door frame, bent over and trying to catch her breath. "Come," is all she manages before taking another deep breath, "Four is hurt. Something happened in the pit."

Those are certainly not the words I was expecting. Tobias rarely gets hurt and there's no reason I can think of that he would get injured in the pit. Unless one of the new initiates flipped out on everyone, in which case, yes, of course, Tobias would be the one to step in and neutralize the issue. But he should be able to do that easily. 

Lauren is still panting when I take off running. She catches up quickly and I shout over my shoulder, "What happened?"

"Don't know," she says as we round a corner and start descending downwards into the pit. "I wasn't there. I heard shouting while I was in the storage room. When I came out Four was on the floor, bleeding."

I stumble in my steps and she must see the shock on my face. If someone managed to get Tobias on the ground and cause an injury...

"Gun shot?" I swallow and ask, "or knife?"

"Don't know," she says again. When I grimace she adds, "He's conscious and moving, he's just... a little confused, I think. So I ran to get you."

I nod in thanks and we hurry along the inner staircase, finally able to look down and see the scene below. I can see him writhing on the floor of the pit, thrashing back and forth. His movements tell me that he is clearly in pain but the erratic motions show how disoriented he is. A small group of by-standers forms a wary circle around him, giving him a wide berth. One of them, I can’t tell who, reaches out to calm him, trying to place a hand on Tobias's back while he rolls on the ground. Whoever that person is, they wouldn’t know not to make contact there. Tobias swipes the innocent hand away and the person retreats, moving backwards with the rest of the crowd. I can see the blood stain on his shirt, dangerously located near his lower stomach: clearly a knife wound. The circle of red is getting bigger.

Finally, I’m on the last level of the path circling the pit. I jump down rather than make the final circuit to the ground and run to him. “Four,” I say in a loud voice, elbowing my way through the crowd. “Tobias, it’s okay, it’s okay, calm down,” I crouch next to him and reach out to place one hand on his forehead, the other on his stomach to staunch the wound.

He jerks and looks at me, making eye contact and calming ever so slightly. But I don’t think he really sees me. I try to shush him, quiet him, but I feel stupid making hushing noises beside my delirious boyfriend who is bleeding out in front of me. “Lie down,” I say, trying to use a stronger voice. “Lie down, calm down.”

“We’ve called the paramedics, they’re on their way,” someone whispers in my ear. I nod and focus on pressing harder against his abdomen, praying that no internal organs were damaged. Blood seeps between my fingers and the harder I press him into the floor, the harder he tries to move against me. I can see the color fading from his face as he strains.

He tries to stand up again and I do the only thing I can think of: I straddle him. I wait until he’s nearly supine and then quickly lift my leg over him and settle on top of his upper thighs. He calms slightly but is still moving far too much than can be good for him. I lean forward carefully, cupping my hands around his face but using my core muscles to keep from putting any of my wait on his torso. Now I’m hovering above him, my face inches from his as I say, “Tobias, it’s me, it’s Tris, you’re going to be okay.” 

Finally he stills, his eyes focusing for the first time since I approached him. Now I stroke his cheek and wait until I feel some of the tension in his body release beneath me. I keep talking, “You’re in the pit. You’ve been stabbed. You’re going to be alright but you need to stop moving.” 

His breathing is shallow and labored, and uneven. I’m closer now to the stab wound and I can see how much blood he has already lost. His color is paling before me but I can’t panic. I can’t panic because I need to stop him from panicking. “Lie down,” I cup my hands around the back of his head as a cushion, making shushing noises that sound childish but I hope will help. I keep eye contact with him the whole time.

Someone leans over to tell me the medics are almost here. He stirs when he hears the stranger’s voice. I nod slightly to show that I understand but I keep moving my fingers underneath Tobia’s head in slow, calm movements. It feels like hours, but only minutes later two medics arrive. 

There’s a bustle around us as they try to assess the situation. One medic is older, and crouches down next to us and opens a large kit full of gauze and bandages. I have to lean up, away from Tobias to give them access to the wound. Tobias tries to sit up with me but I grip his hair and try to keep him flat on the ground. One medic is poking around the puncture site while the other is checking Tobias’s vitals and flashing a light into his eyes. 

I have to shift my position as the medic cuts away the lower part of Tobias's shirt and begins to pack gauze on top of the wound. He is counting each layer as he applies them. I can feel Tobias weaken beneath me and shudder at the blood stains around his neck, transferred from my hands after I tried to apply pressure. 

“We’ll have to move him,” the older medic says to me. “And we’ll need to sedate him to do it.” Tobias must have caught a few words because he jerks forward and struggles beneath me, trying to push up with his arms and almost knocking the other medic across the face. 

I push the medic out of the way and crouch down again, this time letting my left hand press gently on Tobias shoulder to lower him to ground once more. “Everything is going to be okay,” I speak slowly but clearly, my eyes boring into his and praying that he will hear me. “You are going to be alright. We need to move you to the hospital wing.”

As I’m speaking, I slowly run my hand down his left arm, rotating it outward so the inner veins are exposed. I hold his arm tightly, just below the elbow and nod to the medic who is waiting with a syringe. “You’re going to go to sleep and when you wake up I will be there.” He jolts as the needle punctures his skin. I know, because I know him, that syringes and injections are not something he submits to willingly. I hold him still until the medic is done, then I run my hand back up his arm, curving up his neck again to cup his face once more. I lean down and kiss him just as I see his eyelids start to flutter close.

*

I follow the nurse down the white hallways of the Candor hospital wing. Unfortunately, the dauntless nursing station isn't equipped to handle serious trauma. The medics used their van to transport Tobias across the city. 

"The knife missed his liver, which is good," she states, "a few inches higher and he would have be missing much more than his spleen." I cock my head at her bluntness but push the thought out of my mind. The knife didn't hit his liver. Tobias didn't bleed out instantly. I don't need to spend anytime worrying about things that didn't happen. The knife hit his spleen, part of which had to be removed. Fortunately, the spleen is not an essential organ. He will live. 

The nurse continues, "That said, he still needed a blood transfusion, which is finishing up now. We'll check his blood pressure in a few hours to see if he needs another."

We turn a corner and start walking by small, individual rooms. Some have empty beds and some are occupied by patients. "Your friend is lucky, he'll make a full recovery but it will be slow due to the dense muscles in the area of the wound. We often find that athletic people have a harder time recovering from injuries like this. It limits their mobility and forces a reduction in physical activity. He'll have to refrain from any upper body or core workouts and avoiding using his left arm for the next few weeks. Do you think you can manage to persuade him?"

I nod. I'm sure getting Tobias to agree to bed rest won't be easy, but I can be just as stubborn as him. 

“He’s sleeping now," she finishes. "You can go in and sit with him. When he wakes up, please alert the nursing staff."

“He's still asleep?" I ask as I glance through the window on the door to see a sleeping Tobias. “I thought the medics only gave him a mild sedative when thy moved him."

“He started to regain consciousness quite quickly,” she frowns and her tone turns accusatory, “but we had to sedate again him when he refused to comply with the standards of care.” 

I raise my eyebrows at the nurse’s retreating form and her judgmental words.

There is a soft beeping coming from the heart monitor in the room. That’s the only sound I hear after the door shuts behind me. I walk over to him, lying on the bed with the sheet pulled up and tucked beneath his arms. I reach for his hand and frown when I see the restraints around his wrist. There’s one on the other side as well. I sigh and shake my head at the doctors’ foolishness. Of course they had to sedate him. If he realized he was restrained, he would have fought to be freed.

I reach for my concealed knife and easily cut through the straps. Then I pull up a chair, sit beside him, and run my hand gently over his forehead. There’s a strap wrapped around each ear; they’ve placed a breathing mask on him, presumably to keep up the flow of oxygen. The blood transfusion line is taped along his left arm. The heart monitor wires are sticking up from the top of his gown. 

There’s a short moment when I think I might cry. I feel a sting in my eyes and my face scrunches up as I look at him, stationary and bruised and vulnerable. It’s so unlike his usual dominating appearance. I allow myself no more than one full minute to rush through the horrific what-ifs that play inside my mind. When that minute is over I shake my head, clear my thoughts, and settle for holding his hand in both of mine, gently running my fingers over his palm.

Some time later, he begins to stir. I’ve never watched him wake before and I make a mental note to observe it again the next chance I get, outside of this hospital environment. He shakes his head and starts to move his arm, the one attached to the transfusion line. I stand and grip his hand tightly to keep it from moving and upsetting the IV. His head turns and he focuses on me. A few breaths pass and I see the recognition in his eyes. I smile and brush my hand across his forehead. He lifts his free arm and makes to remove the breathing mask.

“Stop,” I say, catching his wrist, “That stays on.”

He gives me a questioning look and tries to move his arm against me. I’m shocked at how feeble his attempt is. He must be very weak. It’s an odd predicament to considered. “Can you hear me?” I ask. He nods.

I take a deep breath and decide that what would make him feel the most secure right now is information. “You were attacked in the pit. Someone had a knife. The guards are still reviewing security footage to see where the attacker went.” I pause and gently touch his stomach, just above the wound. “You were stabbed once. You lost a lot of blood - and part of your spleen." 

He tries to look down at the puncture site but grimaces when his muscles tighten. Deciding that he’s been reasonably informed, I go to sit back down again but stop myself and instead lean forward to kiss him softly above his brow. He grips my hand, this time with more strength. When I lean back he tries to speak but his voice is muffled through the mask. He looks pointedly down at it and I gently pull it off for him.

“Are you,” he takes a deep breath, “alright? Were you hurt?”

A sound that could be the beginning of a sob just as well as the start of a laugh comes out of me. I can’t help myself; I cradle his head and rub my thumbs over his cheeks. “No, I wasn’t hurt,” I assure him, “I’m fine."


End file.
